Mirror, Mirror
by Avexl
Summary: John purchases a mirror for 221B, and Sherlock does not like it at all. Why Sherlock Holmes never seems interested in romantic relationships with others. Sherlock/Sherlock. PWP.


**AN:** **My first time writing porn, so my apologies if it's unbearably cringey. PWP. I did have a warning for creepy, but apparently people disagree with me on that one so enjoy. :D**

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This was all John's fault.

Two mirrors were perfectly adequate for a dwelling of 221B's size: the antique one adorning the mantel piece—Mrs. Hudson's which I couldn't manage to tell her to get rid of without raising suspicion—and a small shaving mirror in the bathroom which practically constituted a necessity. Neither John nor I spent a lot of time perfecting our appearances—John isn't particularly vain and I don't require much in the way of grooming. There has never been a need for another one.

The last case ended with an overweight, balding, impotent man tackling me to the ground. His wife had had an affair with his sister who was brutally murdered after she told Mrs Griffiths that she wished to terminate their relationship. It was a shame in the end; I'd rather hoped it was going to be a far superior killer with a higher motive than the one she'd had. I'd suspected a more intelligent craftsman for such a killing, but the letters taunting the police were not sent by her—a crazed fan, I suspected. I'd find out whom, but that was not as pressing. That was how I ended up with such a repulsive man trying to fight me into the mud. John pulled him off me as Lestrade and the rest of his horde arrested him, and his sister. Why didn't he hit /her/? She was the one pleasing his wife since he clearly couldn't, and yet I was the one caked in muck, mire and probably excrement. People are morons.

Stepping into the shower immediately relaxed me—I felt the knots that were wound tightly in my back unfurl. The shower was long and fulfilling, and I only thought about it as I began to search for something clean to wear.

A floor length mirror in the bathroom was truly ridiculous; ostentatious, useless, out of place. I'd tried to convince John of its utter stupidity on more than one occasion; he hadn't listened. He'd had to be so stubborn, didn't he? And as my eyes met the ones of the man in the condensation covered glass, I became even more convinced of its complete inutility.

It had been a long time.

I detest looking in the mirror. In fact, detest doesn't even begin to cover it due to the semantic degradation of the word. Idiots and hyperbole have made the word weak to the point of inaccuracy. Looking at the mirror is humiliating, and a demonstration of every way I have failed. I hate seeing the pallid reflection's frosty glare studying itself; the eyes moving too fast, attempting to deduce something from the questioning man presented before it. It can't. Instead it becomes fascinated by the way the reflection's lengthy neck meets its collar bone or the ever so slight, barely there, indentations of its hips.

It's been this way since puberty—the self-quake which shook out the last of people's patience and intrigue and usefulness in many cases. I was fascinating then; the boy remarkably faced, blue-eyed, dark maned boy.

It's not normal. I knew I wasn't normal—I've had enough people tell me that for a lifetime—but it's visceral. It's not love. Love, like sentiment, is a chemical defect found in the losing side; it's just attraction. I'm brilliant—being told that by John the first time wasn't the first time I'd suspected as much—but I'm not yet perfection. I do not deserve love until I reach it, and even then I very much doubt I would love the person behind the mirror image.

I pretty much hate it actually.

And I hate that it's so exquisite.

I wish it were another man sometimes, whom I could crawl up to and fuck until he screamed. Or even the other way around. Even if it were to be an incompetent fool—even if it were Anderson—I'd still take it on my hands and knees. Happily. Humiliatingly so. But I'd figured out a long time ago to be wary of that wish—there's no point dreaming of the impossible. The shadow may even be better than me, and not require give in to such repellent, pathetic needs such as my own.

It never stopped being a fantasy, though. I turned my attention downwards and stared at it, fully aroused. I always try and stop. But it'd been a while, and I watched as the long, elegant, violin player's fingers slipped down the reflection's torso—still glistening with water droplets. Its breath hitched as it reached the dense mass of curls.

I started with the tip: slowly circling it with my thumb; teasing. I always tell myself I shouldn't do it, that giving into by body's baser urges showed a pathetic amount of self-control on my part. I don't need to do it. But I always do, however long I have managed to bear it before. My teenage years were the worst—people wondered why I was such a loner, but I was a teenage boy with access to the thing I wanted to fuck. I could barely keep my hands off of it, but I'm not like that now. I need the relief to last a while, as I cannot afford distractions whilst working.

The shadow brought up its other hand to its nipples, gently rolling the right between its thumb and first finger. I closed my eyes, feeling my dick grow harder in my hands. _Draw it out_, I kept having to tell myself, but that became fraught when I eventually opened my eyes. The reflection's steely blue-greys had become almost entirely black. "Oh God," I heard myself mutter and finally wrapped my fist over myself.

The mirror man's strokes were steady and strong with a gentle twist of the wrist under the head, and I couldn't help but relish the image of the lithe muscles of its arm working. I began inspecting its entire form: the slowly drying and forming curls around its ears, the too-high-and-should-not-be-as-attractive-as-they-a re cheekbones, the overly defined Cupid's bow, the weak chin, right down the wiry torso and legs, to the should-not-be-as-big-and-round-as-that behind. I'm not blind—I know they're not conventionally attractive traits. It shouldn't be as much of a physical manifestation of my attraction as it is; it shouldn't all work together. It should be repulsive and repugnant but it's not—it's an ethereal, divine looking alien creature that makes my mouth water.

Before I could stop it, my hand reached out to touch the creature. _All I need is to touch,_ I thought as my fingertips met its cold, hard form. The rhythm of my hand faltered, ever so slightly, at the contact. It was frigid and unyielding and two-dimensional but it was real, or the closest I will ever be able to get to it. It's indescribable, the feeling of being so close to the flesh I desire so much and not be able to truly feel. My tongue followed my fingertips, aching to taste the man and our lips met. It was slippery. It tasted like bitter metal, glass and ever so slightly of the condensation from the shower. I ache to feel it one day. My hand sped up, seeking friction desperately, when I stopped and reached out. The feeling of hand lotion on my fingers made my breath quicken more. I covered my dick in the liquid and looked deep into its eyes before canting my hips forward.

It was heavenly—the sight of my hips meeting the reflections, both seeking friction against one another. We were so close to touching and feeling each other it hurt. I tried not to focus on our distance though, instead the gentle drag of friction and the striking body in the reflection. It looked desperate and aching and we were, we are. I needed to fuck him. I needed him to fuck me. Take me. It always starts so simple, with me convinced that I won't lose control, but it's stupid to pretend anything but. It's always had the control over me and _always_ will do, and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it except give in to the creature. It's sublime, and it knows it.

My thrusts against the mirror became erratic as I slowly reached around and pressed one slow, lotion-covered fingertip to the cleft of my ass; I looked back at the refection: it was leaning against the wall to steady itself—God how its arms looked muscular—and sweat began to form on its already wet brow. As long as I live, I will never be able to find any sight as stunning as that of the statuesque being presented before me then. I started with two fingers inside, cherishing the feel of the burn.

Two quickly became three and I found myself struggling to remain upright; the steadying arm bent and the mirror and I became closer. My mouth and its were so close I could feel my heavy pants deflecting off of the glass as they reverberated on my lips, almost as if I was tasting and sharing its breaths. My knees were braced against the mirror now too—it was near impossible to just stand up. I crooked my fingers up, desperately seeking pleasure, but struggling to find the angle—impatience leading to my movements getting faster and faster.

I groaned ineloquently. _More__,_ my brain chanted. I could feel myself approaching orgasm then, but I didn't want it to be over yet. I pressed my lips once more to the mirror and thrusted my tongue against its. The feel of the smooth drag of the reflection against my flesh, the frantic fingers over my prostate—it was too much; I slipped to the ground. I looked up to see my duplicate's wrecked expression and submissive position—crouched against the glass, on its knees, with a hand fisting at its cock and the other reaching behind.

I couldn't trap the moan that escaped me as my orgasm ripped through me; closing my eyes and arching my back again. I had to force them back open to stare at the shadow's expression as I finished over my fist. I was left there panting after the release for which I ached for so long. Languidly, I brought my fingers to the mirror and smeared it against the wry-smiling mouth of the duplicate in the glass. I let out a deep contented sigh as I brought my knees up to my chest and throwing my arm over them. I brought my eyelids down and revelled in the relaxation, burying my cheek in my bicep. For now this was enough. I may never be able to touch the shadow, yet I still had got this. I took a deep breath, and that's when I heard the strangled moan—jolting me from my reverie.

Slowly and deliberately, I bought my glassy eyes to the mirror which focused on a startled reflection behind me.

"Yes?"

"I—I didn't mean—" I had never seen such a stupefied expression on my life.

"What?"

"B—But you—"

"What?" My voice was a little sharper.

"You just—"

"So what?"

"But—"

"Shut up, John."

This was all John's fault. And he could have looked at me with all the alarm in the world, but it still was.


End file.
